Torquatus’s shoulders slumped a little, and he waved his hand at me. “Very well, but mind your step. There’s been a vagabond around of late, and who knows what such a creature would do to a woman without an escort.”
“I’ll be sure to faint after I’ve run away from him,” I quipped, which earned me a laugh from my ‘husband’ and a disapproving glower from my host.
I waved goodbye to the prisoner and slipped out of the house. The sun was weak but bright, and its cheery light and the chirping birds eased my heart. The sight of Niveus standing in the yard, chewing on the grass, made me even happier.
The horse lifted its head at my coming and continued to chew its cud. I gave him a smile and a lazy salute as I passed. “Doing a good job there, Niveus. Keep it up.” The horse nickered and resumed his foraging.
I strolled up the street where I hadn’t traveled and reached an intersection, where commotion from the road behind the squire’s house caught my attention. I followed the noise and discovered a crowd on the corner of the next crossing.
A small covered cart decked out in flashy splashes of paint stood there, surrounded by a gaggle of children and adults who gawked at the oddity. The crowd attracted my curiosity, and I slipped over to them to see what was going on. The people surrounded a painter who sat on a chopping block with his easel in front of him.
The man was about thirty, with a clean face specked with two days’ worth of stubble. He wore a simple long coat over a plain buttoned shirt and brown pants. Long, narrow dress shoes covered his feet, and his short, dirty-blond hair stuck out at odd angles. His eyes were a soft auburn color, but there was something about the way he stared straight ahead without turning his head that made me think something was amiss with him.
An empty canvas sat on the easel, and the man grasped a paintbrush in his left hand. The odd thing was, I didn’t see any paint. There were no cans or even a palette. His clothes, too, were unstained by any coloring.
I turned to one of my curious compatriots, a man of the village. “Who’s that?”
One of the women looked at me incredulously. “Haven’t you heard of the famous blind painter, Damiano Velario?”
Blind. That explained his unusual eyes and odd habit. I kept a cool smile on my face as I shrugged. “No, but I’d be interested to learn more.”
The man lifted his chin and inflated his chest with importance. “He’s only the most fantastic painter in all the kingdoms. A blind man who can paint like the best of them!”
“And he doesn’t have airs about him,” an old grandmother chimed in as she bobbed her head. “He takes anyone and paints their picture, whether they’re able to pay him or not.”
The man nodded. “He comes around to the villages every couple of years and makes up a few portraits for the folks, but he won’t do you if he’s already done a picture. That’s the only rule he has.”
“And he has his sights set on the prettiest of maidens,” the grandmother added with a wink at me. “I think he’ll be wanting to paint your picture.”
The incredulous woman lifted her nose. “If he had any sense, he’d be doing the wisest of us.”
The corners of the other woman’s mouth twitched upward. “But my dear, that would still leave you without a portrait.”
Her acquaintance’s cheeks reddened, and her body trembled as she balled her hands into fists at her sides. “And what does that-”
“Shh!” the other woman hissed as she nodded at the painter. “He looks like he wants to speak.”
Velario had sat up tall in his chair, and the crowd quieted as he smiled at them. Those dark brown eyes stared straight ahead, though I noticed he tilted his head a little here and there whenever a noise reached his ears.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure to be back in Fenovilla. I am glad to hear so many of you remember me.”
“How could we forget such a talented man!” someone spoke up.
The painter bowed his head. “You do me a great honor, sir, and I would like to repay that honor by offering my services to anyone who desires me to paint their portrait.”
A man with a lad of six stepped out of the crowd and stood before the painter. The local was attired in the simple brown garb of a farmer, as was the child. He set his hands on the young boy’s shoulders. “I would be grateful if you would paint a picture of my son, sir.”
Velario smiled and stretched out his right hand straight ahead of him. “It would be my pleasure. If the boy would please grasp my hand.”
The young lad looked uncertainly up at his father, who nodded and gave him an encouraging push. The boy stumbled forward a few reluctant steps and stopped before the painter. He lifted his small, quivering hand and set his palm into the one offered by Velario.
The painter wrapped his long, slender fingers around the boy’s hand and closed his lifeless eyes. He leaned his head back and lifted his brush to the blank canvas. A faint yellowish light emanated from the union of his hand with that of the boy, and at the same time, the same color of magic emanated from his brush. He swung his tool over the canvas, and the stretched cloth came alive with a splash of color. The brilliance started in the center like a giant puddle and swirled outward like a backward whirlpool. Along the way, the colors formed shapes until a picture began to emerge.
The audience gasped as the portrait revealed itself: it was of the young lad seated in a freshly cut hay field, with a dog lazily draped at his feet. An afternoon sun hung over his right shoulder, and a simple farmhouse stood behind his left.
The boy’s face lit up, and when the artist released him, he exuberantly clapped his hands. “That’s my little dog! And my house!”
His father was stunned. “My gosh, but it is! And that’s the field in front of our house!”
